


Cat's Paw

by Rotpeach



Series: The Great Tumblr Rehoming of 2018 [22]
Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novels)
Genre: Betrayal, Gen, Horror, Psychological Torture, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-09
Updated: 2016-11-09
Packaged: 2019-09-22 23:24:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17069174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rotpeach/pseuds/Rotpeach
Summary: Having two of you in the basement is fun, but just a little bit too much trouble. Strade has a system to keep everyone in check.





	Cat's Paw

You’re the good one.

If you’re the good one, he’ll let you go.

He promised. He _promised_ you that.

That’s why you

(on bloodied hands and skinned knees, in delirium and exhaustion and despair, crying out his name or the name of a loved one or really whatever comes to mind)

do everything he says.

If he tells you to look at him, you fucking look at him. You shakily drag your gaze up from the grime-covered basement floor and you refuse to falter, even when you see his eyes narrow and know what’s coming,

(and knowing is always worse)

even when his knee collides with your stomach and knocks the wind out of you, leaves your whole abdomen throbbing and sore as you sputter and cough and try to get ready for the next hit but there’s never enough time.

You’re the good one, so you try not to think about the fist that slams into the side of your face, the way your eye swells up puffy and black-violet and you taste blood in your mouth. You don’t think about it when he does it again and again and you feel one of your teeth dislodge from the socket, coppery and gum-covered roots sliding over your tongue just before it drops to the floor with the tiniest tinkling sound like glass. You don’t think about it when he unties you and lets you collapse on the ground just so he can straddle your back and hold your arm out and

(you hear metal clattering behind you know something’s coming something’s coming but _what_?)

you tell yourself that you’re going to be okay when you feel him press cold stainless steel against the back of your hand spread flat on the floor, tell yourself

(you inhale sharply and tense in anticipation when its weight is lifted ever so briefly because you know you know you know it’s coming back it’s going straight through your hand it’s going to hurt)

that you’re going to make it through this, you’re going to be alright.

You strain your neck to risk a glance across the basement at the stranger who was already there when you came, picked up from the same bar days earlier with weariness in their bloodshot eyes, staring down at you with pity and you can only think _“how dare they?”_ when the sharpened point of an ice pick is driven through the middle of your hand, hitting the concrete under your palm.

“This is your fault,” Strade says over your screaming. “I didn’t want to do this.”

He isn’t talking to you. He rarely does, but it’s always pleasant, always all smiles and gentle encouragement, offering food and water and patting you on the head and pretending he doesn’t see you flinch when he touches you. It’s because you’re the good one. He never says nice things to the bad one because they don’t do what he says. He doesn’t praise them or feed them.

He hurts both of you, but you know you are the good one. That’s what he told you.

“You get how this works by now, don’t you?” he asks harshly, yanking the pick out of your hand and trailing the metal point down your arm, scraping against your skin. “I’m punishing you for each other’s mistakes. You really want to see them suffer?”

They don’t answer him. They don’t care. You could probably kill them. You could mess up, you could start squirming, you could disobey everything he says and then they would be punished instead.

But you don’t because you’re the good one.

“Still got nothing to say?” he demands, letting the pick rest against the meat of your shoulder.

(Your heartbeat quickens. Your breath catches in your throat. Your fingers tense and your toes curl and you wait for the inevitable.)

Then, very quietly, they say, “I’m sorry.”

They’re looking at you when they say it.

You look back. You don’t know what to say.

You’re so startled that you don’t notice the pick leave your skin again as Strade lifts it over his head. You forget what’s coming until the bad one winces and looks away, and your scream echoes off of the walls.

*

“I’m sorry,” they tell you again that night when Strade is gone.

You stare into the darkness of the basement where their voice is coming from. “What?”

“I don’t want you to get hurt. But I’m not doing what he says anymore.” They pause. You hear them shift on the floor. “You shouldn’t either. It’s probably fair that I get a little fucked up, too.”

“No,” you say firmly. “I have to do what he says. He’s going to let me go.”

You can feel them looking at you even if you can’t see them. “You really believe that?”

You don’t answer.

You don’t speak to each other again for the rest of the night.

*

You wake to panicked screams and struggle to sit upright, glancing across the basement to see somebody new where the bad one used to be. They’re new here, you can tell by looking. They’re loud and energetic, struggling against the ropes as Strade draws closer with a crazed grin and a hammer.

“Hey, calm down,” he tells them, speaking so softly you can barely hear him. “We’re going to play a little game, alright? A game for the three of us. As long as you do what I say, you’ll be fine. I might even let you go at the end.” You stare at the back of his head as he kneels in front of them and hear the newcomer’s panicked breathing quicken. “Everything you do matters,” he murmurs. “If you disobey me, I’ll hurt them. If they disobey me, I’ll hurt you. Get it? You’ll be good, right?”

The newcomer lets out a strangled sob.

You’re still staring when Strade walks back to you, looking up into his eyes as he smile widens at the sight of you awake. “Hey, buddy,” he says. “I’m glad you’re awake. Your little friend was just a bit too unruly for me, so I had to take them out of the game.” He grins, gesturing over his shoulder. “But don’t worry, I brought you a new one. I hope you can get along.”

Your gaze slides back to the newcomer. They stares back at you, pleading silently for help you can’t give them. They tremble, drawing themselves in and trying to be as small as possible. You look again at Strade, his fist closed around the hammer at his side and trembling in excitement.

“So,” he says, “stretch your legs out for me, buddy.”

You feel the newcomer’s eyes on you. You know they’re terrified. You know they would be screaming now if they didn’t think it would make the situation worse. They don’t know the rules here yet, not like you do. They don’t know how it works.

“No,” you say softly.

He doesn’t ask if you’re sure. He doesn’t give you enough time to back out. You look up at the dim light bulb flickering in the middle of the ceiling as he passes in front of you and goes over to the newcomer, shaking his head in disappointment.

“This is your fault,” he mutters. “This is all on you. You’re doing this to them, not me.”

You don’t listen. You don’t think about it. You don’t say a word.

“You could’ve stopped this,” he insists, and the newcomer begins to scream, begging him to stop, begging you to do something, just begging loudly and obnoxiously like they think it’ll make a difference. You used to do that, too.

“Please,” they stammer, “Please, please, I’ll listen to you, I’ll do whatever you want. Please don’t hurt me, I-I-I…” They stop only a moment, and you know they’ve turned to look at you without glancing back to check. “What’s wrong with you?” they’re screaming now. “How could you do this to me? I can’t believe you, you’re just as bad as he is! You didn’t even hesitate! Why won’t you say anything?”

You turn and watch a cellar spider creep along the wall, crawling over the corpse of a fly. You don’t want to watch but you don’t have to; you can picture it clearly from the sounds alone. You hear skin sliding over concrete and the tearing of flesh.

(Strade pulls their leg out straight. They try to shake loose and kick him with the other one. He stabs them in the thigh with a knife they didn’t know he had, but they’ll learn that he always has one.)

A few last mournful pleas. False promises. Whimpers. The rush of air when he lifts the hammer over their knee. Bone crunching. Screams echoing off of the walls.

You are not the good one anymore.

And it feels kind of nice.


End file.
